


like a waterfall, like a ticking clock

by fencehole (ayodelle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Family Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayodelle/pseuds/fencehole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras visit their hometown. It's finally spring, it rains considerably, and looking at the places and people they grew up with, Courfeyrac and Combeferre have to confront a question they've been avoiding for far too long. In other words, childhood flashbacks, melancholy walks in the rain, and scheming family members.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a waterfall, like a ticking clock

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the jumps between POVs - the current timeline is always going to be from Courf's POV and the flashbacks are Ferre's. This has been sitting in my drafts for way too long, so I'm ripping the band-aid off.

**7 ½**.

The first place they visit after entering the Marlhes area happens to be Combeferre’s old house. Combeferre hesitates when he realises he took the turns on instinct, but Courfeyrac doesn’t so much as exhale in disagreement. Instead, he grins widely as the familiar street comes into view – first the house of his former dentist, then the house his biology teacher bought for his mistress, and finally the Combeferre’s rose bushes and orange gate. He taps his fingers against his knees to contain his nervous excitement and sees Ferre grip the steering wheel just a little bit tighter, too.

It’s Combeferre’s mom who opens the main door for them, her already radiant smile exploding as she eyes them standing on the doorstep. “Courfeyrac!” she says as she leans in to hug him first, gripping his shoulders protectively and hooking a few loose strands of hair away from his forehead as they separate. She’s still taller than him, a fact he’s come to accept a long time ago, and he stands up on his tiptoes as she gazes at him, bursting into warm laughter.

Next she turns to Combeferre and blinks repeatedly as her eyes start misting. “Jean,” she says in a more subdued tone, producing a groan from Combeferre, yet once she’s hugging him the two become inseparable for what feels like ages. Courfeyrac doesn’t mind at all.

The greeting procedure gets repeated several times as they cross the rooms of the house, the choruses of ‘Jean!’ and ‘You got so handsome!’ earning Combeferre’s father, grandma, aunt, and two little cousins, good-natured eye rolls and shakes of his head. Courfeyrac observes him, fondly, thinking back to the many times he’s seen this scene in different variations -- all the visits, holidays, or simply returns from trips with their class. They’ve all aged considerably, but it’s hard to notice when all their smiles and the scrunched up faces look the same.

“How’s your mama, dear?” Combeferre’s mom asks him once the situation calms down a little and Combeferre’s cousins engage him in a quick-fire game of twenty questions. (Are you a doctor now? Do you have your cloak with you? Can we use it for playing ghosts?!)

“Haven’t seen her yet, she’s working some extra hours so that she can have more time for us next week,” Courfeyrac says and shakes his head in mock-disapproval. “I have no idea what she’s planning to do, but she sounds very determined. Bet she will try to bake a three-layer cake again.”

Combeferre’s mom nods, her eyes betraying a sort of motherly understanding that Courfeyrac’s came to know so well. “I’ve heard the headmistress position is treating her rather well. Noora and Kamali gush about their P.E. classes every week.”

At Courfeyrac’s raised eyebrow she leans in conspirationally: “They’re learning salsa next time. Don’t tell them, though.”

The girls do show off their exceptional cha-cha skills in a routine set to a Disney mash-up in the time it takes Combeferre’s parents to set up a table in the backyard. Even though it’s April, it still feels like winter most days, so they decide to make use of the sun while they have a chance. However, the kids aren’t allowed to step outside until they put on two layers of sweaters, and Combeferre’s dad raids the house in his search for the pair of thick reindeer socks he got that Christmas.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac volunteer to help with the food but they’re quickly shot down and forcibly seated at the top of the table, left with pats on the head for good measure.

“I forgot how aggressively welcoming your family can be,” Courfeyrac says once most everyone retreats into the kitchen. “They’re just so glad to see you, _Jean_.”

Combeferre’s smile morphs into a pained grimace but he’s quick to recover: “Don’t fool yourself. Grandma Zola has mentioned how ‘charming and mature that Jean’s become’ about five times already,” he says and bumps Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“Nah, your Grandma loves me but she would never call me mature,” Courfeyrac says as he quickly grabs Combeferre’s arm and rests his head on the shoulder. “I’m sure the memories of cherry stains and broken porch steps are still fresh in her mind.”

Combeferre chuckles and the sound reverberates through his body, making Courfeyrac hum contentedly. “Your aunt on the other hand, I swear I can see all the questions about our love lives flashing on her forehead. She sure is wondering whether someone as _charming_ and _mature_ as me is planning to settle down anytime soon,” he says, remembering the time two years ago when Aunt Eya tried to set him up with one of the customers from her hair salon. “I suggest we enjoy the calm before the storm.”

Soon the welcoming committee is back, this time bringing gifts of food. The table is hardly big enough for all of them, but it miraculously manages to endure three separate appetizers, a huge bowl of lentil soup, another two main courses, dessert, and a fruit dish. Courfeyrac vividly remembers how, when Combeferre’s dad was in-between jobs, Grandma Zola swore she would rather go without heating if that was all it took to have money for their traditional Christmas dinner. Therefore he’s not surprised by the display, but both he and Ferre find themselves shaking their heads, and he hopes no one had to go without electricity just because of their visit.

“So how’s Enjolras?” Ferre’s dad asks once the whole family settles down around the table and the cousins get permission to dig into the food.

“Good, but the moment he got here he decided to pay the major a visit because the road on main street is full of potholes,” Combeferre says, reaching for an empty plate and a piece of Chin Chin. “You know how he gets, wouldn’t surprise me if he decided not to leave the town hall until he gets it fixed.”

His dad appears amused at Enjolras’ antics, but cousin Kamali stops eating and pins Combeferre down with a serious look. “He can’t fix the holes! We use them to do bicycle tricks in the summer!”

That provokes several simultaneous reactions, ranging from Courfeyrac wondering just how many summers the road’s been in this condition, through Grandma Zola addressing several divine entities to give her strength, to Kamali’s mom vowing to visit the major herself.

Combeferre tries to use the ensuing chaos to his benefit, sneakily grabbing another piece of Chin Chin, but Courf catches him and steals it out of his hand. Combeferre levels him with an unimpressed glare which he plans to address by gently kicking him under the table, but he catches sight of Combeferre’s mom and stops himself at the last moment. There’s nothing sinister or unusual about her look, yet she’s looking right at the two of them – and Courfeyrac immediately returns to the food on his plate.

However, as he painstakingly tries to arrange his feet so that they do not, under any circumstances, touch Combeferre’s, his best friend catches his right ankle between the two of his and smiles at him. “Stop squirming so much. You’re going to fall off your chair.”

Distracted as he is, when Courfeyrac goes to eat the Chin Chin, he realizes Combeferre makes a mighty good thief, after all. At least he would, if he could wipe the smugness of his face as he swallows the last bite.

***

At seven and a half years young, Jean Combeferre, wannabe cosmonaut and occasional scuba diver, is absolutely sure of three things.

First, his mother has decided to give him the worst, lamest, _Frenchest_ name in the history of given names as a punishment. For what, he is not entirely sure, but he is willing to bet it was because of all the kicking he must have done while still in her belly.

Second, the boy he had just met by the sandbox on the playground, one Jean Courfeyrac, is his future best friend. He watches Albert Barillé’s shows almost as religiously as Combeferre, his favourite season is spring, and he promised to let Combeferre play with his scooter tomorrow. Plus, he’s not very fond of his name either. They are going to become inseparable.

Third, he is going to make sure that they become _so_ inseparable and attached at the hip that no one will call him by his given name ever again.

\---

"Jean, finish your meal, dear," Grandma Zola says from where she is sitting at the top of the table. She gestures towards the plate laid in front of him, and Combeferre frowns in protest. On his right side, Courfeyrac, his best friend, nudges his foot beneath the table and smirks. "That's right, _Je--an_ ," he says, mimicking his Grandma's thick Nigerian accent. Combeferre lets out a low whine.

"Don't call me that," he says, defensively, but takes the fork into a tight grip and dives back into bean pudding they're eating. He can feel Courfeyrac's eyes on him as he eats, and from the corner of his eye he sees him smirking contentedly, already exchanging the plate of beans for one with the chocolate cake he brought from home.

"Courfeyrac, dear, please thank your mama for me tomorrow," Combeferre's mother says, smiling down at them both as she collects the dirty dishes once they're finished. "She shouldn’t have worried with the cake, we're happy to have you here."

Combeferre is quick to nod, turning to face his best friend. "So happy we can finally have a sleepover!"

After they spend some time lounging in front of the TV, recovering from the three-course-meal his family has prepared ("Because it's important to give a good impression, Jean!"), Combeferre's dad comes barging into the living-room with a huge bag slung over his shoulder. "Who's up for some tent-building, boys? You can choose where you want it and help me read the manual."

“Please, dad, we’re seven and a half. You can help _us_ ,” Combeferre says as they both jump up front the couch and rush to the garden, ready and eager for the task. It proves to be a lot harder than they have anticipated, what with Combeferre's dad just standing around, watching them slyly, clearly relishing their struggles.

Usually, they do make a pretty good team. Courfeyrac is, however, much too excitable, flying around the backyard when he gets bored and chasing butterflies instead. Combeferre, on the other hand, gets extremely irritated when their building is not progressing at the speed which he deems appropriate, so he spends large quantities of time just frowning at the disfigured structure and the printed guidelines which are much too complicated for a seven year old boy who has just recently learned how to read.

“Dad, could you help me with this stick?” he asks after a moment, trying to figure out which end of it goes where.

“Oh, please. You’re seven and a half, surely you don’t need this old man to help you with something that basic,” his father says with a wink, but gently takes the stick from Combeferre’s hands and points it in the right direction. Courfeyrac, meanwhile, returns to them after an unsuccessful attempt to find an anthill in the grass.

"When we're done, we should go and build some furniture, too," he says, sitting on his heels by Combeferre, idly watching him put some finishing touches on the tent. His dad is standing above him, helping him reach the highest point of the structure, but he's still not helping him directly, which has Combeferre gritting his teeth in frustration. “We can make a table out of your books and put some flowers on it, to make it homelier.”

"What a good idea, Courfeyrac," Combeferre's dad says, patting the boy on his head. Combeferre can feel the slight note of hesitation in his voice as he calls his friend by his surname, but he has explicitly begged his parents, on several occasions, to do so, so they're trying their very best. "You should go ask Daraja for help with the beds, I think she's already been working on them," he winks.

A few minutes later, Courfeyrac comes storming back to the backyard, carrying two sleeping bags and sporting a giant grin. The tent is ready when he gets there, and he stops in his tracks when he sees it, giving out a whistle in awe.

"Good job, Ferre, we can move right in!" he says, already pushing the tent open to climb in and lay the sleeping bags on the floor, side to side.

Even though it’s summer it gets dark soon, and Grandma tries to convince them to get back inside for a bit and have a light dinner. The boys refuse, however, too absorbed in their game of tic-tac-toe, sitting at the stairs of the front porch. Though they think they've made their point quite clear, Grandma comes back with a bowl of Chin Chin and they almost tackle her in their haste to get to it.

Once Combeferre's mom announces it's time they went to sleep, they abandon their space on the steps and shuffle towards the tent. But when they see the lights in Combeferre's parents’ bedroom go out, they climb out of the tent and sit on the grass, wrapped in the blankets they've brought with them. Combeferre knows his mom would not approve, but he’s _seven and a half_ and very much due for some childish rebellion.

"You see those stars that sorta look like a falling dinosaur?" Combeferre asks as they lean back on their elbows, watching the sky overhead. "That's the Pegasus constellation; my ma’s told me stories about it."

Courfeyrac tilts his head to the side, looking into the direction that Combeferre's finger is pointing at. "It doesn't really look like a horse, Ferre,” he says, scrunching his eyes as he concentrates at the sky. “Are you sure you're not just making it up to impress me?"

Although he is joking, Combeferre hunches his shoulders and shakes his head violently. "No, Courf, it really is the Pegasus. I don't know why it's called that, but it is," he says in his defence, and shuffles closer to his friend, lowering his voice into a conspiratory whisper. "One day I will fly up there and I'm going to visit the Pegasus stars and perhaps then I can find out if there's something special about them. You know, whether they all have wings, or if they look more like a horse up close."

“Can you send me a message when you do? I want to be the first to know!” Courfeyrac says, not doubting Comberre’s ability to learn the truth about the constellation. “It could work if you learned the morse code, like the sailors always do in movies, and took a giant torchlight with you. You could flash it while I would be watching on the ground.”

Combeferre considers this, already making plans in his head to ask dad which shop sells the biggest torchlights. Then, he shakes his head, grinning at Courfeyrac. “Too complicated. You could just come with me instead!”

As the rest of the street slowly falls quiet and most of the houses’ lights go out, Combeferre points out the many other constellations he’s been learning about. When Courfeyrac’s eyes start drooping, he nudges his shoulder and motions to the tent behind them. “We should probably go to sleep. You’re not even listening anymore.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t seem too enthused about it, but concedes, drowsily climbing into the tent and settling into the sleeping bag on the right. That’s the one Combeferre wanted, initially, but now he can’t be bothered to say a word about it. He tucks himself in beside Courfeyrac and watches his friend’s rapid descent into sleep with something akin to fascination.

He’s never had problems falling asleep, at least not since he’s successfully made the permanent switch from his parents room to his own bedroom. However, he’s letting his mind run wild tonight, thinking back on the events of the day to make sure he remembers them vividly, and already planning tomorrow’s escapades at the same time. Perhaps he could show Courf his fast-expanding collection of stamps, the one his father passed onto him when he turned six. Or he could convince Grandma Zola to take them to the community pool; he has some spare swim trunks he could lend Courfeyrac, they should fit him alright.

Just when he gets stuck on the question of whether Courf would enjoy a sing-along to Aladdin more than to The Lion King, he hears a very weak sigh coming from Courfeyrac’s side of the tent. It’s followed by another few sighs and a couple of kicks. Then the boy cries out, as if in pain, and Combeferre feels his heart speed up.

“Hey, Courf, are you alright?” he says, keeping his voice low. It _is_ the middle of the night.

Courfeyrac doesn’t respond but his body trashes almost violently. Combeferre moves closer, concern taking over his actions, and puts his hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, shaking it gently. After a bit, Courfeyrac’s eyes fly open and he catches a deep breath. He looks around, as if in a daze, his expression sleepy and dumbstruck.

“Ferre, did I wake you?” he asks once he becomes aware of where he is. “I’m sorry, I had a nightmare.”

Combeferre shakes his head. “Don’t worry, wasn’t sleeping,” he mutters. He moves back to lie on his back, but keeps his gaze fixed on his friend. “Was it bad? I hope it wasn’t too scary.”

Courfeyrac shifts so that he’s lying on his side and gives a small shrug. “Same thing as always. Mom and dad fighting, leaving me and Camila behind.”

Combeferre frowns. “Always? Do you have nightmares that often?” He can’t imagine what that must be like. Each time he wakes up because a bunch of spiders attacked him in his sleep, or a serial killer climbed in through his window, he can never fall back to sleep easily.

“It’s been getting worse since dad started working at the new firm. They’re always yelling at night, thinking we can’t hear them.” Courfeyrac shrugs again, not eager to take the topic up.

Combeferre goes to say something, how his parents fight too, usually right in front of him, and about the littlest things possible. Courfeyrac cuts him off sooner than he gets a chance: “Don’t worry about it, Ferre. It’s not real, you’re here, and we’re having a sleepover,” he grins at him, shifting closer as he lowers his voice to a whisper, as if he’s telling Combeferre a secret. “Don’t tell Enjolras, but this is the best sleepover I’ve ever had.”

“Me too,” Combeferre says with a smile. He can’t let the topic go, though. “Do you know what helps me with nightmares?”

At Courfeyrac’s questioning stare, he continues: “When I have a nightmare, I always write down the good dreams I have afterwards, for the next few days. Then when I’m scared I just think back to those and the bad ones go away.”

They’re both silent for a while, as Courfeyrac ponders his words, and Combeferre feels his palms sweat, wondering if he’s said something inappropriate or stupid. At last, Courfeyrac nods, giving him another face-splitting grin. “I’ll have to try it next time,” he says with conviction.

 “For now, could you talk to me a bit more about space?” Courfeyrac asks, huddling into the sleeping bag and turning his attention to Combeferre, only two eager eyes sticking out behind the hem of his blanket.

“Sure,” Combeferre nods, simultaneously flattered that Courfeyrac wants to hear more of his stories, and doubtful of their helpfulness. He takes a deep breath, nevertheless, and starts right off: “So there’s this think called the Milky Way – no, Courf, I don’t mean the chocolate bar – and it’s a place where…”

***

The weather gets even better in the afternoon, so even though they get rid of the dirty dishes, they decide to camp out in the garden afterwards. Combeferre gets lured into a conversation about his dissertation with his parents, and because Courfeyrac’s pretty much worked as his sounding board throughout the entire writing process, he decides to make an escape. He’s playing around with Kamali and Noora, trying to help them reach perfect synchronisation on the small swing set he himself used to play on, when Aunt Eya approaches him.

“Your hair’s gotten so long, Courfeyrac,” she says as she leans against the metal construction of the swings. “It looks better than mine!”

He knows Eya’s tactics and mentally prepares himself for a thorough investigation, but over the years he’s become just as good at deflecting her questions as she is at brainstorming them. “Thanks, Aunt Eya. Might chop it all off while I’m here and donate it to your salon. I’m all about finding ways to pay the rent.”

She purses her lips, an expression she used to scold him with any time he talked back to her as a kid. “Don’t joke about that, hon. What are you going to do now, anyway? Do you have a full-time job lined up after the summer?”

That – is quite surprising. He expected matchmaking, bachelor jokes, and jabs about his looks not being forever, not enquiries about his job prospects. He swallows heavily, trying to look cheerful.

“I’ve sent out CVs to pretty much all high schools in Paris,” he shrugs and kicks at the grass beneath the swings,” but so far they either have a psychologist already, or aren’t even looking for one.”

He looks up to see Ferre glancing at him from across the garden, a question obvious in the frown between his brows. Courfeyrac immediately schools his face into a joyful grimace. “Don’t worry about it, though! I still have my barista job at the ABC and that’s good enough to tie me over until I find something.”

Eya doesn’t look too convinced. “But what about your apartment? Will you be able to pay the rent on your own?”  

It takes a massive effort not to let his fake smile slip, but he’s nothing if not determined. “Marius is moving in with his fiancée next fall and I’m going to live in his place. With the guys who visited last Easter, Feuilly and Bahorel, you know?”

That still doesn’t seem to put her at ease. Courfeyrac just now notices that the girls have run off, the swings now slowly coming to a stop. He feels inclined to jump on one and put the conversation on hold. Preferably never to be taken up again.

“I’ve told Combeferre he should take you with him. Or that he should’ve tried to convince you to apply there --” he means to cut her off but she gives him no chance. “Don’t start up with that English _crap_ , Courf. You have almost as many certificates and prizes as he does, no way they wouldn’t take you.”

“Aunt Eya,” he inhales deeply, supressing a sigh and about a million snide remarks. “They don’t need me in Edinburgh. But I’ve seen –I could help in Paris. I’ve been in these kids shoes.”

Aunt Eya sighs hard enough for both of them, uncrossing her arms to tug on his T-shirt. “I know at least one person who’s gonna need you in Edinburgh.”

He doesn’t need to follow her line of vision to get who she means. He takes her hand and squeezes it softly, a feeble reassurance that he’s growing desperate for himself. “We will still be best friends. Paris or Edinburgh, nothing’s going to change that.”

She smiles at that, almost sadly: “Probably.”

Courfeyrac means to continue but she walks off towards the other adults, leaving him defensive and thoughtful and strangely melancholy. He plays with the chain of the swings – his own doing, the rope never stood a chance – and tries to get any thoughts of Scotland or medical practice out of his head. Just as he’s psyching himself up with visions of a long, warm, relaxing summer, he feels a raindrop land on his nose. He briefly contemplates how the weather’s now aligned with his mood but dismisses that quickly. For one, he’s not in a _Men in Black_ movie. Two, he doesn’t even have anything to sulk over. Paris or Edinburgh, they’ll still be friends.


End file.
